eyes blue like your ice cold heart
by finaljoy
Summary: Natasha survived by selling her time and body to men who couldn't make real relationships work, men like Clint Barton. And though he hurts her heart with his kind eyes and empty sticky notes, she needs all he can give, especially with a vicious pimp holding her life in his fist. As Clint buys her over and over, Natasha wonders if her needs are worth the suffering. AU
1. the story of a man and a woman

_AN I have been WAITING for this story, because it is so perfectly human. It was heavily inspired by the story 'Mental' by Lea Benoit, because it is just fabulous and asdfkjl;, and I adore the idea of Natasha having fallen so low that she can't even claw herself back up, despite being an incredibly strong person._

_With that said, I feel that I need to put in a disclaimer/warning on two matters:_

Natasha is not the superspy that she is in Avengers. While her backstory is not happy or good, it is not as twisted as in the comics. She has no need to be the perfectly controlled and reserved woman that she is in both comics and movies. So in my story, while she does put up a pretty good mask, inside she is still just a woman who is struggling with a very, very terrible life.

_Also,_

This story is going to deal with a dark, sad depiction of prostitution. Not only Natasha is living in a truly terrible situation, one that I spun out of the things that I have read and seen on pimp controlled prostitution. Aside from that, I don't really know much about prostitution or the details of how it works. It's really me just twisting the whole thing to suit my story in terms of the prostitute's treatment and mentality, so advance apologies for any discrepancies. If you care to tell me more or correct me on the subject, feel free, but I do ask that you be polite.

* * *

**it was a system and she was**** screwing it up.**

It was still cold this time of year. Yet she soldiered on with the short skirts and the low necklines, because that's what lured them in, and they were what paid the bills. Better a few hours of discomfort in a week than entire days of it.

It was a clean operation she helped run, she had to admit. The Landlord housed all of the girls, and then handed out their names and details whenever a customer asked for something they could provide. Natasha was higher up on the list than most, because she could adapt to the situation unlike the others. She had earned the right to be reserved for some of the best customers, and very rarely had to lounge around bars or street corners, but sometimes she had to, when no one was calling the Landlord for her.

That was how she'd met him. She was street walking, slinking up and down, hoping to catch someone's eye. A voice behind Natasha caught her attention, making her turn. There wasn't much special about it, and normally she would have tuned it out along with all of the other noise that infested the streets at this hour, but at the same time, he was..._totally different_ from everything else.

"Excuse me," he'd said, and his voice had actually sounded like he cared about the way he addressed her. Like she deserved respect like every other human being.

Natasha eyed the man, unsure of what he wanted. Usually men just called at her, rude considering they were enlisting her services and most of the time didn't even have the excuse of being drunk.

He was a little short for a man, but was still taller than her. His face was worn and serious, and his light blue eyes were dark and far too pretty for her own good.

"Uh, yeah?" she'd replied, and wanted to kick herself because she was surprised into ineloquence and her accent had bled through stronger than usual. She sounded like some poor illegal immigrant that had been dragged out of her country and forced into the trade, as opposed to some stubborn idiot that had dug her own grave and was casually sleeping her way into it (they were totally different, she told herself. It was a matter of pride, no matter how slight). "What do you need?" she tacked on, trying to sound a little more refined.

"Are you on the job?" he asked, and she blinked in surprise. She was expecting him to be one of those naive do-gooders that asked her if she was lost, or if she had enough money for the bus or a proper coat. Natasha was always good at shouldering them away, and had her response half on her lips by the time she understood the question.

"N-yeah."

"You sure?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. She pursed her lips, trying to keep from saying something rude and scaring him away when she really needed the cash. Natasha put her hands in her coat pockets instead, trying to push away her irritation.

"Yes," she said testily, embarrassed at how she was fumbling all over the place. _Years_ she'd been in the business, and yet she was acting like some absent minded kid.

"Well, alright then," the man smiled, grin easy and promising that Natasha wouldn't have to work too hard tonight.

**she was a prostitute, he was her customer.**

Despite the fact that he was a bit unorthodox in the way he went about actually picking her up, it was clear to Natasha that he had done this all before. Some men bumbled about, but he was to the point. Not a savage that tossed her around the room, though, which was something she was grateful for. The Landlord got upset when one of the girls came back with bruises all over them. It put the other customers off, and sometimes they even refused to pay full price.

The hotel room was nice enough, she noticed as he opened the door, pausing a moment for her to walk in first. The men that rented out hotel rooms for her generally found dumps that just offered walls to hide behind and a mattress to fall onto, but not this guy. It was nice enough to actually make someone want to stay there, with clean walls and a prim bed, about to be made less prim when she laid down, sure he would be quick to follow.

She glanced over at him, who was a few feet away and pulling off his coat and suit jacket.

"Do this often?" she asked, noting just how relaxed he was, like they were chatting over coffee at the bar of a diner.

"A few times," he said, raising a teasing eyebrow.

"Me too." His laugh was low and actually amused, a good sign.

"What's your name?" he asked, and she paused in the act of pulling out her earrings. Natasha gave him her best street walker smile and purred "Whatever you want, honey."

Clint smiled and nodded, looking at his hands as if to say he should have expected that answer.

"Alright. What's the name your parents gave you? Or the one you go by, which ever."

"…Natasha. What's yours?"

The man raised an eyebrow and looked her in the face as he pulled off his shoes. Most girls didn't ask questions about their customers, unless it had to do with work. As a general rule, the customer's name, age, and relationship status was off limits unless they brought it up themselves. She made her face blank and unassuming as she waited, even though she was a little uncomfortable with his clear gaze. He was searching for something in her, and Natasha had no idea as to what so she could hide it from sight.

"This a new policy I haven't heard about?" he asked, yet again proving that he had done this so many times. She shrugged, leaning against the table and trying to play it cool until she got an answer. His question didn't sound bothered in the slightest, and if anything, was a little joking. Hope nudged its way into her chest, because men that were in good moods to begin with always paid better.

"Just a question. Seems a bit more proper, don't you think?"

He looked at her a moment, weighing her in a way she was certain she didn't like. His blue eyes seemed to look straight through her lies and facades, right to her mangled and uncertain core.

"You're one of Calvin Hughes', yeah?" he asked, and Natasha felt her skin crawl, worried that he might attempt to report her for not performing the moment they got in the door, instead cluttering the air with talk.

"Yeah, I'm one of the Landlord's," she said, voice tight. None of his girls called him by his name. It didn't fit, something so mundane and potentially kind labeling such a cold, cold man.

"I heard that he has a good set of girls that handled their own details, but I don't think I really believed it before," he chuckled, allowing Natasha to finally breathe again. He had moved a little closer, leaning against the wall by the door and acting every bit as casual as she was.

_His hands are even in his pockets,_ she thought darkly. This wasn't exactly inviting, though his body language was completely open and he didn't seem to have the slightest problem in talking with her.

"What saves us is efficiency," she said, a coy smile on her lips. "Makes things a little bit more personal, but not too cluttered and confusing."

He grinned back, something far too bright and happy for the situation, though underneath there was the exact same dark undertone that hers had. It heightened the lines in his face, but rather than make him seem older, more worn out, it only made his little boy blue eyes seem brighter, taking delight in such a forbidden, immoral act. Natasha liked that spark, no matter the reason. She blinked and focused somewhere else as he kept it up, convinced that she was about to go cross eyed if she kept staring at him as he moved closer.

"Alright, fine. Clint Barton. Want my social security and PIN next?" His voice was low and lovely, and for a moment, Natasha wasn't sure who was supposed to be seducing whom. She grit her teeth, snapped at herself to get a _hold_, and get to work.

"No. A name will do," she smiled. He cocked an eyebrow. By now, he was so, so close. His hands were on her hips, his lips practically on hers. His voice was rougher, now that he was testing his restraint, but she didn't care. She wasn't exactly there for the conversation, anyways.

"Do I get a last name, to make us even?

"Romanoff. Natasha Romanoff," she said. She always found it odd to tell these men her name. Most other girls had fake ones, ones that seemed exotic and exciting for the bored, horny men hiring them. With the Landlord, though, no stage names were used, just the one that they used for everything. He was careful to pick up stray girls with no connections, no ties back to the 'real world' as he liked to say. People cut out of the system. It was cleaner, apparently, but also much more personal. Small attachments lead to better performance, which meant more cash at the end of the day.

The methods were cold and calculating, but they certainly worked.

"Natasha Romanoff?" he asked, voice a murmur as he ran his hands along her sides. His words were kisses on the air just before her mouth, tempting her, taunting her, daring her to make the first move. "That's a pretty name."

She gave a smile that he probably couldn't see, but could certainly taste as he gave in and kissed her, fierce and desperate.

_What good's a pretty name when you've got a dirty soul?_ she thought, letting him pull off her shirt.

**she didn't care about him, no way she could. he wasn't even interesting.**

Natasha opened her eyes, feeling groggy and sore. It felt like she'd been stuffed away in a box for the last few hours, and she knew she wouldn't be able to work it out for hours.

The room was still rather dark, that strange time between dawn and night. She sighed, then closed her eyes again. She could pretend to be a sleep for a little while longer, then it was out and about once more.

Clint shifted beside her, though he didn't make any noise. Despite how abnormal he had been before they'd finally fallen in bed, he had turned out to be the same as every other veteran to adultery. For some reason, Natasha found that fact a little bit…disappointing.

She kind of wanted to laugh at herself for even entertaining the thought of him being different, something special. A reporter that wanted to interview and not sleep with her. A man working perilously close to the wrong side of the law, using her as cover. Stupid and impractical dreams, but ones that had been lived by other people. But then, that should have been her first clue. Good exciting things always happened to other people, not her. Never her.

_What's wrong with me?_ Natasha thought grumpily. _This never would have happened a few months ago._

**not even when he woke up, and didn't touch her.**

Clint shifted again, and by now, Natasha was sure that he was awake. He sighed like she had, sounded like he ran his hand over his face. She waited, wanting to hold her breath but not wanting give anything away.

At the moment she had her back to him, facing the window, and she could feel the heat of his hand as he reached over to her. She expected him to stroke her back or arm or something, which was pretty typical for the morning after. Sometimes it made her skin crawl, and sometimes it felt so wonderful she didn't want them to ever stop. She hadn't decided how she felt about Clint yet.

Natasha frowned, realizing that he hadn't put his hand down yet. It was just...hovering there, right above her left shoulder, like she was a flame and he was there only to heat himself.

She shifted, testing him. As soon as she moved, he pulled his hand back, narrowly avoiding the brush of her skin.

Interesting. So he was the type who liked to pretend it never happened, like they were both naked in the bed because of coincidence and he was now keeping himself in check out of common decency.

She hated those types. They were liars and cowards, too afraid to own up to their own lust and baseness. Strange, though. Clint was a confessed repeat offender, and they were absolutely shameless in their activities. The kiss and run types only dared to hire girls a couple of times before they stopped or changed into something a little more cheeky.

Natasha waited a little longer, wanting to see what he did next. Somehow she had the feeling that he would do something unusual, despite her self reprimands.

**it also wasn't interesting when he got up a few minutes later and walked out the door.**

His sigh sounded so, so old, she thought to herself, still pretending to be asleep. A few moments had dragged past after he pulled his hand away, and he was now sitting up. The air was cold on her side as he moved out of the bed, and Natasha couldn't help but shiver.

He seemed to notice, as he paused in whatever he was doing to pull the blankets back up around her shoulders.

Natasha listened to him fumble around with his clothes for a moment, grunting here and there as he padded around the room. For a moment, she could sense him standing in front of her. She struggled to make her face smooth as in sleep, waiting, waiting. This was generally when men jerked her awake, barked something rude at her, or stared at her until she couldn't pretend to be asleep any longer.

The quick shoving off of cash would be awkward as she still had clothes to put on, but they didn't seem to care, pretending to go about their business as she left. Some retreated into the bathroom, hiding from her face and expecting her to be gone by the time they came out, others watched her blankly as if she were a tv screen. The best situation was a little kinder, where they might gently shake her awake, and tell her she needed to get up. Then they might talk to her as she pulled on her too short dress and pantyhose, or turn on the radio. Sometimes they even said goodbye as she walked out the door, money in hand.

She hoped Clint was the latter kind. Not only because it meant less hassle for herself, but also because he could really become something. With his little quirks and laid back, joking manner, there were chances of him becoming her favorite customer, should he choose to keep buying her time.

But again, he caught her off guard. He mumbled something to himself and turned away, not even saying so much as a word to her. At this point, Natasha just had to crack open an eye. She squinted at him through her eyelashes, seeing him walk over to another piece of clothing on the floor. He was wearing pants which hung loose on his hips, showing a well muscled back. One of Natasha's eyebrows managed to spring a little higher before she could stop it.

She had noticed that he was fit last night, it was kind of hard to miss, really, but seeing it was a little different from feeling it. She closed her eyes as he pulled on his shirt, not wanting to mess things up now.

Natasha held her breath as he sat down on the edge of the bed, putting on his shoes, maybe, and then went through a few more seconds of rustling. Then the sound of shoes on the floor, and the door clicking shut.

She waited, unsure of what had just happened. Had he gone to the bathroom? Natasha reluctantly rolled over, frowning when she saw the empty bathroom. Her eyes landed on the door to the hall, then blinked. He had _left_? That was...an absolute first for her. Why had he just left? Why didn't he wake her up?

A dark thought hit her, and she slammed her fist into the pillows.

He had run away without paying her, that was the only explanation. That cheap cad! Why hadn't she guessed, he was probably some scumbag that managed to go around conning prostitutes like her that thought they could sneak a few seconds of extra comfort. No _wonder_ he had been so relaxed earlier, he hadn't had a reason to worry if he wasn't going to pay her.

**he wasn't interesting to her. except for when he put that sticky note on the mirror.**

Natasha flopped back on the bed, so upset with herself for being so _stupid_ she couldn't even think straight.

Of course, this is what she got for slacking on the job. What would the Landlord say, when she came back and had to explain that this random schmuck had cheated her out of a good few hours of money? Would he kick her out?

The thought sent fear through her stomach. Her numbers had been dropping lately, and she was really counting on tonight to pick them back up. She might not have been the girl of the month, but at least she would be paying her rent and still have some left over.

Natasha reluctantly sat back up, then leaned over to paw at her underwear, which was on the floor. Maybe if she could get back out there fast, there might be someone who would pay for at least an hour...

But no, it was early morning. The chances of someone buying her _now_ were slim to none.

She pulled on the remainder of her clothes, mood foul.

Natasha slipped on her pumps, wondering if any of the other girls might float her the cash. No, that was ridiculous. If someone came to _her_ begging even fifteen more dollars, she wouldn't give it to them. The Landlord was very clear that you earned what you earned, and no girl could lend anything to someone else.

She looked into the mirror, trying to adjust the scowl off of her face. Her hair was a mess, and her makeup was smudged beyond anything that could be passed off as slightly decent. She angrily smeared her arm across her mouth, getting rid of the last mocking remains of her lipstick.

Natasha finally noticed the sticky note on the frame of the mirror. She frowned, realized there was nothing on it. She pulled it off, turning the perfect little square in her hands.

**it was blue. like his eyes, she thinks.**

This was certainly an unusual twist, but sticky notes didn't do jack when she needed actual money. She turned to throw it away, then caught sight of the wad of bills, tucked neatly in the far corner of the desk.

Hope swooped in her stomach, and she grabbed the bills up, rifling through them. Their smell was cloying and almost metallic, but at that moment, it was the best scent Natasha had ever experienced.

There was a little less than she usually charged, but that was alright! That was more than alright, that was a blessing from God, whom she hadn't really been sure if she liked after everything she'd been put through. She grinned at the bills, so thankful that this strange, strange man hadn't ditched her with nothing that her legs felt weak. Natasha braced herself against the desk, then remembered the sticky note held tightly in her hand.

She brought it up to her eyes, examining it. What on earth could it mean? A blank sticky note, one that hadn't been there when she'd walked in, some sort of message?

It was bright blue and slightly crinkled from where she'd held it, but laid relatively flat when she set it down. Natasha regarded it, uncertain.

Its color reminded her of his eyes, maybe a bit more saturated. And without all of the dull grey weariness that clouded his eyes. A flutter of hope went through her stomach at the thought of his face. Was he going to hire her again? She hoped so, if only to ask what the devil this sticky note meant.

_What a weirdo, _she thought, trying to pretend that she wasn't actually interested. Natasha pocketed the cash and turning to leave.

She paused, hand on the door knob. Natasha glanced at the sticky note and sighed.

**she takes it because they haven't left her anything before.**

As she walked back, the sticky note burned in her pocket, a secret, a promise, a stupid bit of possibility. She knew that she was marching down a road that she would probably want to sprint back up later, but the promise of something new, something _different_ to smother out the pointless drudgery of every day was too strong. Any attachments not explicitly instructed made the Landlord upset, because he liked to be in control and when one of his prostitutes did something he didn't like, they suffered.

But Natasha really didn't care. She didn't really think that he could do much to make her life even worse.

At least, she hoped.

The walk back to the apartments was long and just as cold as the night before, but it gave Natasha time to forget Clint Barton, let her face settle into its typical mask of distance and apathy. If the other girls saw her, noticed any change on her face, they would leap on it immediately. Natasha didn't know if it was like this with other pimps and their girls, but with the Landlord, bonds were discouraged and backstabbing was praised. It was cruel and soulless, but the mind games certainly ensured a more profitable income for the man.

The apartment building was narrow, crammed in between two other buildings. In all honesty, it was like a boarding house and a motel had given birth to something that didn't quite fit in any category, a little too big here, a little too thin there. The rooms were stacked in beside each other, small and utterly utilitarian. Even the Landlord's room was small, though he decorated it far better than the rest of the people living there, simply because he had the money to.

Every time Natasha had to enter that building, it felt like a slap in the face. She could only think of it as a reminder of how little she had left to scrape by with. There was no house for her, no home, just a building to walk back to that was cold and oppressive.

People flitted by her as she walked through the lobby, quiet and purposeful as they headed out or walked in. They avoided eye contact with her, and she didn't say a word as she sauntered past. In the eyes of the food chain, they were nothing but dust under her heels, where as she spent her time fighting and clawing for the top. But that also meant they weren't as entrenched in the life. If they wanted to get up and leave, then they could. The only thing truly stopping them was fear. The more they let the Landlord favor them, the more his words wound into their heads and kept them in place, nasty snarled hooks binding them to his terrible business.

As she walked down her hall, the sticky note seemed to vibrate in her pocket, screaming for someone to notice and snatch it away. She remained cool and nonchalant as she passed girls, some her age and a little older, some far younger. To the younger ones, those about fourteen, she even offered a smile, because she was sorry that they had to be there in that nightmare with her.

Natasha couldn't help but take a breath of relief as she crossed into her room. She may not have had a house or home, but she had her room, which was almost better. It was the one thing that each prostitute working under the Landlord was allowed, a space that was entirely their own. In regards to the others, they could make their own rules, decide who could and couldn't come in, decorate it any way they wanted. Some girls plastered the walls with posters and magazine cut outs, to pretend that they were normal again, while others left it pessimistically bare, as if to suggest that decoration didn't matter when they were gone.

Natasha tended to lean more towards the sparse side of the scale, leaving her walls and largely unadorned and the furniture plain. She really only had room for her bed, nightstand and vanity. The only personal addition she had made was a small picture frame, perched bravely on her nightstand. Her bed, unlike everything else in the room, was utterly chaotic, a nest of pillows and blankets, which often spilled out onto the floor.

She pulled the sticky note out of her pocket, glancing it over before pressing it to her mirror. It had just enough adhesive left on the back for it to stay in place, a small blue square of imagined promises.

As she looked at it, Natasha begged herself that she wouldn't let this man climb even further into her head.

* * *

_AN I've been working on this chapter for a very long time, trying to get everything to be perfect. The depiction of Clint I have in my head is a messy compliation of him from Avengers, but then also a lot of influence from the Aja/Fraction Hawkeye comics, as well as a couple cartoon Clints (what don't judge me the new cartoons are great). Natasha is much like herself, but as I said, just...less controlled, less like a spy. _

_I really hope you enjoyed the first chapter, please review to tell me your thoughts on it, and I will hopefully update soon :)_


	2. more rule of thumb

_AN I am so sorry it took me so freakin' long to update this story.__ I really adored the response this story got and waiting a month isn't how people generally show their appreciation, but here it is so, thank you? I just __kept getting distracted! I'd need to look up one little thing, and then I was suddenly reading a four page article on Jeremy Renner (which I had already read), then reading extensive backgrounds on prostitutes which I didn't need at the moment, watching music videos and this and that and the other and NOT DOING MY JOB AND I'M SORRY._

_Also, a lot of you commented on how mysterious Clint was, and I can't help but laugh at myself, because you are totally right, and I didn't realize it XD It's kind of refreshing for him to be the enigmatic one for once, and for us to be able to look into Natasha's head and it not be clouded up by her training her feelings into nothing._

_Also, there will be at least one reference to another work, whether it be movie, music, book, etc., from any time period and of varying intricacy. Keep a look out ;)_

* * *

"Love Affair"

There was a love affair in this building  
The kind of love affair that  
Every respectable building must  
Keep as a legend  
Slowly festering through an  
innocent "by the way" or "have you heard".

Regina Spektor

* * *

**days go by, yet it always stays on her mirror.**

Natasha kept finding herself looking at the sticky note, slightly crinkled from where she'd first grabbed it and thought it so perfectly reminiscent of Clint's eyes. When she walked into her room, that little snap of color was the first thing she looked at, a mocking, frustratingly empty note.

It was even worse when she came home from a night's work, because the image of the man she had built in her head whispered that he would have _never_ pushed her like that, or laughed at her when she asked if he had had protection or if the woman in the corner was really going to sit there and watch. And whenever she looked over the vague bruises left by a particularly insistent customer (or, on bad days, strangers), Natasha's eyes were almost physically _dragged_ over to the little square. It kept reminding her of him, the way he had been all quiet, teasing manners to her, the image of a decent human being, even while buying her.

And then she mentally smacked herself in the head, because what did she know about some horny business man that was lying through his teeth about his true nature? What did she know about what he was like when he was on a bender, or when an important check bounced, or when he was in enough of a pinch to have to turn to drastic measures to make sure the lights still turned on?

That sticky note reminded her that she truly knew _nothing_ about the man, and it hurt her soul almost as much as his kindness had.

_He's a weirdo,_ she reminded herself, _a twisted asshole that enjoys playing mind games with fools who can't find better. Don't get caught up in it._

And that became her chant, _don't get caught up,_ because things were hard enough when Natasha kept her head planted firmly in real life, and not some imaginary one.

Of course the sticky note attracted attention. Seemingly useless little bits of stuff in Natasha's room were as common as ostriches on the moon. The few people that were allowed in stared at it, even though ages had passed and it clearly wasn't going anywhere. The paper was like a caged freak show, demanding their attention just as it did with hers.

Perhaps that was why she fixated on it every time she walked into the room, she mused once. Maybe it was because the sticky note was just so foreign to everything else she'd done, it always took her by surprise no matter how many times she saw it.

It was a nice thought, at least.

**when another girl tried to throw it in the trash after it fell down, she nearly screamed, snatching it away.**

When the sticky note fell down one day, Natasha made herself not touch it. Absently she would go to pick it up and move it to the small trashcan, but her hand would catch half way there, hesitate, then pull back. Sometimes she was more conscious of it, staring at the slightly wrinkled blue paper, glaring at it like it was some disgusting sticky patch on her vanity that had appeared while she was out. A part of Natasha was trying to force herself to pick it up, crumple it and every thought of Clint, but another part of her was begging for this bizarre rebellion, pleading with her other half to leave it, to let her do something for herself for _once._

So it stayed, and she gradually stopped worrying about it.

One day, a younger girl stood outside Natasha's door. She knocked quietly, and Natasha took her time looking up from her magazine to address her.

"What is it?" she asked, and the girl shifted. She was a newer one, looked about eighteen and had frizzy blonde hair that hung sadly around her shoulders. She looked at her hands, focusing on her chipped nail polish.

"Do you have any shoes I could borrow?" she asked after a moment, not wanting to tread too far. No matter what Natasha's numbers were, she still held rank in the Landlord's twisted hierarchy. If she wanted, Natasha could make a girl's life very, very difficult in the tenant building.

"What size do you wear?" Natasha asked, not moving from her nest.

"Nines."

She nodded, tossing the magazine aside.

"I'll see what I got. It won't be a perfect fit, but you're not going to be doing a marathon, are you?"

The girl gave a 'no' from the doorway, knowing that she wasn't allowed inside unless Natasha said.

Natasha opened her closet, scanning the jumble of shoes.

"You gonna wear that?" she asked, nodding at the girl's clothes. She shrugged, mumbling "I don't have much better."

"Come here," Natasha said, beckoning with a head nod. "What's your name, by the way?"

"Rae," she said, stepping just far enough in to be standing by the vanity. "Rae Schultz."

"Alright, Rae, how do you do with sling backs?" Natasha asked, holding out a pair of red shoes.

"Uhm, they work, but they wear against the top of my heel." She looked so nervous, standing there and asking even more of Natasha, as though seeing how far she would walk into a lion's den before being mauled. Natasha didn't comment, though she had to wonder just what stories the other girls had been telling Rae to make her so scared.

"Pumps, then?"

"Yeah, they'd be fine." Natasha nodded and bent over the bottom of her closet, riffling around to find the shoes.

"Why do you have this here? Everything else is so clean…" Rae said, but Natasha wasn't really listening. When the pathetic sound of crinkling paper reached her ears, it was like she had been burned, making her jerk upright and stare at the other girl.

Natasha's eyes scanned the scene in a second, taking in the absent spark of blue on her vanity and Rae's clenched fist. She sprang up, snarling at the other girl.

_"Don't touch that!"_

Rae jumped, staring at Natasha in utter alarm. She clearly didn't understand the significance of that one piece of paper in such a deliberately clean room, but Natasha didn't care about being angry, she was more terrified of losing that stupid sticky note.

"Give—give it to me," she said, forcing herself to normal tones. Rae's eyes were wide as she held out her hand, wanting to be rid of the paper as soon as possible.

"I-I-I'm sorry," the girl blurted, "I didn't know, I just thought it was a piece of trash, I didn't—_I'm sorry Natasha_."

"It's fine," she said, voice stiff. "Just…take the shoes."

Natasha grabbed a pair of black pumps that weren't _too_ scuffed, handing them off to the girl. Rae took them, looking like she was about to burst into tears as she hurried out.

Natasha stood there a moment, making herself breathe and not start screaming because she just _knew_ what this loss of control meant.

_Don't get caught up, don't get caught up, Natasha, just don't do it!_

Yeah, what a joke.

**it was important. the other girls laughed when they found out.**

She was sunk, because all of that careful independence she had managed to carve out for herself by buying her own food and keeping her own schedule and earning as much good grace with the Landlord as possible was utterly _pointless_ if she was letting herself be yanked along by some guy she'd slept with, moreover, had been _bought by,_ once.

She dropped the paper, turning her back on it and folding her arms, feeling like a fussy child.

She could fix this, she could change it, she wasn't selling her soul just yet. It wasn't quite as bad as she thought. Natasha could pull herself out any time she wanted, because she always did. Besides, it had been almost three weeks and she hadn't seen Clint in all that time. Generally, if men wanted to hire her again, they would find her within two weeks, or even better, contact the Landlord and call for her. He wasn't interested, she'd never see him again. Good.

Natasha turned around to face the paper, again smoothing it out. Seeing it so worn made her sad, because there was no doubt about it. This sticky note was important, and she wanted to take care of it. She wanted to remember the exact blue of his eyes, no matter what lies she spouted to herself.

There were repercussions of showing attachment in the boarding house, and Natasha felt them soon enough. The meaner girls, the ones that hated themselves and everyone else, hissed cat calls at Natasha the moment they had heard the story from a frantic Rae. Natasha ignored them, ignored the jeers of her getting upset over _just a piece of paper!, _and it was no **_wonder_**_ no one's hiring her, unstable as she is_, because they had done so much worse. Even then Natasha hadn't given them so much as a flared nostril. They weren't the kind of rabble that she had to worry about.

The Landlord, on the other hand, was an entirely different threat. She was sure he knew, gossip moved quickly in the boarding house and he was one of its first stops, but whether or not he had decided it was a threat was an entirely different matter. He was unpredictable, as likely to laugh over something as to wreck a girl's room for it.

And if someone said the right things, implied the right reasons, then a sticky note and low numbers could go from coincidence to trouble.

After the encounter with Rae, Natasha learned caution, because next time might not be so innocent.

She moved the sticky note from her vanity mirror to a mostly empty drawer, a hiding place.

_Like I'm guilty,_ she thought, and clenched her teeth.

**he calls for her again, just as unassuming in his suit and strangely personal smile.**

Then one day, Natasha got a call. The Landlord looked pleased when he told her, because calls were generally from men who were regulars, and this was a new name.

Clint Barton, he said.

_Oh no,_ her stomach said.

Despite everything, he had decided to see her again, to torment her and make her wonder just what she had left to lose. Natasha closed her eyes after the Landlord left, telling herself that Clint Barton would _not_ make her lose anything, but it was all a lie she whispered to herself to make her feel a bit more secure.

Shame she always saw through liars.

_Why is he doing this to you_? she demanded as she retreated back into her room, _why are you **letting **him? Natasha, there is no man, no human being in this **world** that can keep you from being exactly what you want._

Which was one of the biggest lies she had told herself all day, because she was a call girl for some scumbag that she really kind of hated and didn't see a way out.

Still, Natasha had to get her money somehow, as it was the only thing that could get her by in the city, especially an expensive one like New York. Maybe she would manage to get a little bit more than her normal rate from him, point out that he had shorted her last time, work her charm, maybe even go the extra mile that she hated. The thought of more money got Natasha through the rest of the day, up through doing her makeup, hair, and tugging on her clothes. She just had to quell what she told herself most certainly was not fear, which wasn't so hard. What were emotions, other than signals and chemicals interpreted by her brain to mean something? Nothing, really, physical reactions, and she could train those out. By the time she was on the street, walking to the address the Landlord had scrawled out for her, Natasha almost believed that he really meant nothing, he was just another client, another deposit of cash.

The walk to the motel wasn't bad, no one called at her or leered as she walked. That was probably because her heels weren't quite hooker length and her scanty dress was hidden underneath her coat and it wasn't quite whoring hour yet. Still, it was nice to be able to go somewhere without being harassed, for any reason. It also allowed Natasha to pretend, just for a few moments, that she was just another New Yorker, not a sad little prostitute on her way to go earn her rent. People might have looked at her and realized what she was, but no one said it, no one labeled her or reminded her of her place in the city's hierarchy.

She rapped on the door a few minutes later, huffing out a breath as she glanced at the parking lot below her, waiting for it to open so she could just get this over with. Her foot started tapping, and she couldn't stop moving, looking around, checking the address in her pocket, smoothing down the front of her jacket.

It was fear that made her move, plain and simple. Fear that, this time around, the mysterious Clint Barton wouldn't be the perfect little picture she had painted in her head. Because as hardened and cynical as Natasha had become, she couldn't help but wish for something—someone—a little bit nicer in her life.

The door opened, and Natasha had a bare second to take in those big blue eyes, the undoubtedly expensive collared shirt and grey suit pants, the ruffled brown hair, and lines on his face that said he was so, _so_ tired before Clint broke into a little boy's smile, pleasure washing away his exhaustion.

"Natasha," he said, like he had known her for years, and not only met her once about a month back to pay for sex and leave her alone to pick up her underwear and her pride alone, "Come on in."

Natasha gave him a smile that was all honey and promises, swearing that whatever happened when he closed the door would stay right there, wrapped up between their chests and escaping their lips only when it was dark and they couldn't see the shame on each other's faces. His smile changed, the dark, sinful, and deliciously self-indulgent side bleeding out and making him look _entirely_ capable of hiring a prostitute and using her for all she was worth.

_Natasha Romanoff, don't you **dare** get caught up in his stupid charm. This side of him is living on shame and lies, don't get sucked in by **this, **of all things!_

"That's a lovely color on you, by the way," he said, taking her coat once she shrugged out of it to reveal a dress the color of pine needles. She flashed another smile over her shoulder, privately thinking that it was odd, the way he had worded it.

'_That's a lovely color on you.'_ Not '_That dress makes you look stunning'_, probably in reference to the fact that her tits were practically falling out and the hem barely hid her underwear. No, it was the color that accented her hair or her eyes or her skin tone or whatever, something any normal person would be told.

He draped her coat on a chair, next to one with his suit jacket hung haphazardly over the back. It was strange how Clint treated his clothes like they were something that could be picked up at a supermarket, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the suit jacket tossed around without a second thought. Natasha wasn't sure if it irritated or amused her, his casual disregard for his own privilege.

**stop wasting time and have done with it, she thinks, but things never turn out that simple for her.**

"So, how have you been?" he asked, and the question was so utterly bizarre, even though she knew that it was just a starter piece, nothing of worth, Natasha had to give him a look. Clint laughed, recalling a bit too late that the life of a prostitute was never one of glamour or casual small talk.

"Right," he murmured, settling in close to her, hands on her hips and his mouth brushing her ear. "Right, it's considered tacky to talk about other men when you're with a customer."

"Not to mention bad for business. So many jealous types out there, you know?"

Clint chuckled in her ear, something that wasn't quite low and husky enough to get her that extra buck, but was certainly getting there.

It was a little miracle that Natasha managed to find words, never mind sound confident and coy, swept away with surprise like she was (surprise, she repeated to herself, not…whatever it was she might have otherwise felt with him so close, his tongue practically on hers). It was so very rare to find men that openly addressed the fact that they were whores themselves, though having to resort to money rather than social talents to lure women in. Certainly, some men briefly mentioned the fact, but it was quickly left aside as their shame and lust over came them.

But she was running away with herself, treading dangerously near to breaking the rules she had laid out to maximize her pay. Everything she did was supposed to make her current customer think that they were the only one in the world that she could ever care for, and mentioning other clients was a sure fire way to not have them call back. If she kept this up, let Clint draw out that mocking, cynical side of her, Natasha would land herself in trouble, fast.

_Just shut up. Ask for the money, then shut up until he wants you to talk,_ she told herself, breaking up the chant of _don't get caught up, don't get caught up don't get caught up don'tgetcaughtupdon't_. She had absolutely no desire to relive the panic and horror of the last time she had been with Clint, waking up and thinking he had waltzed off without paying. Generally Natasha asked for the money up front, but she had been flustered by the whirlwind he presented, making it hard for her to think straight.

Clint gave a smile that was a secret and hers alone, filled up with cynicism and a general mistrust of humanity. He fished out his wallet, pulling out a series of bills. He handed them to Natasha, and asked "That enough?"

She glanced over them, then smiled in return.

"That's just fine, honey," she said, dropping the bills on the table and slunk a little bit closer. Clint pulled her close, the warmth of his hands pressing through the fabric of her dress.

"Don't worry, Natasha," he whispered into her ear, and it sounded like a gift. "I'm not the jealous type."

**his touch is so, so soft, even though the calluses on his hands are rough.**

He kissed her, mouth catching the corner of hers and kissing her again and again and again, but it wasn't wild and desperate like last time. Each little touch and kiss was perfectly gentle, a promise that she was the most valuable thing in the world. Even when he roughly picked her up and sat her on the table, and automatically her legs wrapped around his waist and she kissed the spot just beneath his ear, making his give a shuddery breath, Clint never lost himself.

Natasha wondered at him, wondered what had changed in his life to cause this difference, but then focused on her job.

Clint slid a hand down her thigh to her knee, pulling her leg out so he could carelessly unzip her boot. He kissed her collarbone as he pulled the boot off, tossing it casually on the ground. She wound her fingers up in his hair, kicking off her other boot once he had it unzipped.

There were calluses on his fingers, which was odd for a man so well off. His suit made it clear that the most exerting thing he had to do at work was sign off on important documents and perhaps finagle a few big business calls, but the calluses were so specific to his left hand that she was certain it was from repeated use. They made her shiver as he brushed his fingers over her back, neck, legs, skating over her skin as both she and Clint became more frantic, her tearing his shirt to the floor along with his belt, him unsnapping her bra.

By the time they had fallen into bed, blankets and legs tangling up together, they had stopped being people and were just existential desires, wrapped up in skin. Natasha kept her eyes closed, so that the small amount of light that managed to work its way into the dark room wouldn't show her Clint's face as he pressed his mouth against her stomach, her thigh. She never liked seeing people that way, when they stopped being complex beings and just animals with no control. Especially not people like Clint, who were at least people she liked to some degree.

**he tells her it's because he practices archery when it's all dark and they can't see each other's faces.**

In the end, they lay side by side, gasping in each other's breaths. He wasn't smiling, but even in the dark she could see his little boy's eyes grinning at her, asking _'wasn't that fun_?'

His hand, the one with the calluses, ran over her side, and she took it in her hand. She examined it silently, running the pad of her thumb over the calluses.

"They're from my bow. Archery," he explained when she glanced at him, curious.

"People still do that? For leisure, I mean," she added, trying to think of the well off casually carting around a bow and some arrows the same way others might carry a tennis racket.

"Some," he said, grinning. "Even though it came from the Paleolithic era, people still do it for kicks, not to mention to put food on the table. That's what I call evolutionary success, sticking around for all sorts of reasons, and not just dying out as we become more advanced."

She smiled, shaking her head. Natasha had no idea when the Paleolithic era was (didn't care, really), but she still understood what he meant. Still, after that heap of time, it still was useful, it still had a purpose. What impressed her more, though, was that spark of interest in Clint's eye, and it not be about money or power. It was refreshing, even if it had been caused by a stick and piece of string.

She kissed his fingertips, then rolled over to face the wall when she vaguely remembered that she was _not supposed to be doing this,_ skipping along his gold paved road that only ended in more pain and frustration. Clint immediately moved closer, wrapped his arms around her and pressing his face into her hair, sighing gently and making her shiver as his breath pooled across the skin of her neck. It was like he was purposefully _trying_ to vex her, to deny what little emotional self preservation she had left, all with a kiss and a grin and a gentle, cheeky set of manners.

Natasha bit her lip, her good humor flaking away more and more as he held her. She kept going back to what he had said about bows, how they had managed to become evolutionary successes.

Bows weren't the only things that had managed to survive since who knew when. She had managed to live on, at least, her trade had. But prostitution wasn't about to be given a gold star for having managed to cling to humanity, as it came with the nasty side affect of scourging society with infidelity, abuse, greed, and deceit, amongst a thousand other things. Prostitution, Natasha was sure, would scourge the earth as long as there were hungry, desperate girls like herself, and greedy, despicable men like Clint.

_At least, despicable by rule of thumb,_ Natasha thought, closing her eyes and begging herself to wander into sleep.

**he left her just like before. a yellow sticky note waits for her when she gets up.**

Natasha was hardly surprised when she wakes up and finds Clint still flush against her. She was laying on her back, arm wedged between their bodies. His face was practically pressed into the spot between her neck and shoulder, breath long and slow, nearly in tandem with hers.

It was still mostly dark, only thin strands of morning light creeping past the curtains, which Natasha appreciated. There was little more jarring than waking up to find most of the morning wasted. It wasn't that Natasha was worried about getting back out into the world to be picked up by another customer, it was more fear of the current one waking up and realizing that they would have to cobble together a _very_ good excuse for their boss or wife. That generally led to shouting, pushing, curses hissed under their breath and a confused, tense flurry of exchanged cash before she was booted from the room with her dress barely on.

Clint's arm was draped across her stomach, and she wanted to pick it up and start examining it, to see what other imperfections it had aside from the calluses, but she restrained herself. When he shifted, she snapped her eyes shut, praying that he wasn't awake yet. She bit her cheek as his hand moved up to wind itself in her hair, not sure what would come next, but hoping it wouldn't be unpleasant.

Clint didn't say anything, though, didn't do anything more than gently wrap a lock of her hair around his finger. Natasha kept her breathing even and slow, waiting, waiting for that moment when he got up.

Eventually it came, when he groaned and pulled away from her. He sat up, then got out of bed, gritting out a curse as the cold air hit his bare skin. The entire time, Clint made sure to keep Natasha completely covered by the blanket.

Again she listened as he got dressed, silent as he sorted out his clothes and tied his shoes. She kept her ears pricked for any sounds of him messing with her money, ready to spring up and fight for what she had earned because she was in _no mood_ to deal with that today. Not after the week she had been having, composed of hasty sessions in the backs of cars and in shady alleys where no one was overly likely to see them, the cash thrown roughly to the ground as she pulled her underwear back on.

While there was a small shuffling of paper, it was too crisp and short for him to be taking back the money. And then the door clicked shut.

Natasha cracked open an eye, making sure that Clint had left, and more importantly, that she had been right in thinking that her cash was untouched. Sure enough, it was still tucked away in the far corner of the table, just as big as it had been the night before. A sigh escaped her before she could help it, because there was never anything as too cautious in her profession.

She climbed out of the bed and got dressed, thinking about where she might get her breakfast. Generally she settled for something like a muffin and maybe an apple or drink, but her stomach longed for something warm, even if it was some greasy breakfast sandwich picked up from the nearest fast food place.

Natasha pulled on her boots and coat, grabbed the cash, then paused. She looked at Clint's suit jacket, wondering where on earth it was he went whenever he ducked out of the room, or why he even left in the first place.

**she takes it home, put it in a drawer with the other one.**

She sighed, shaking her head and telling herself that it didn't matter, it didn't matter, there were bigger, more important things for her to worry about. Like breakfast.

Natasha walked to the door, but not before pulling the yellow sticky note she had been dutifully ignoring off of the table and stowing it into her pocket next to the money. She left the room quickly, buttoning up her coat and trying to remember if she had to go straight or turn left to find her breakfast, and trying to forget what that new piece of paper meant.

When she got home, immediately Natasha closed the door and turned to her vanity. She opened the drawer, revealing the slightly worn blue piece of paper that had made her life such hell over the last few weeks. Carelessly she dropped the new sticky note in, then unlocked a lower draw to reveal the box she kept all of her money in.

Natasha carefully unlocked that as well, pressing in specific sections of wood to get the lid to open. It was a gorgeous thing, the only remnant of her life before street walking and the Landlord. She dropped the wad of bills in then quickly closed it, wishing that the Landlord would drop by the boarding house soon. She felt nervous having so much cash in her possession, not only because other girls might be tempted to try and steal it, but also because she might get careless one day and just blow it all on nothing. Natasha had thought about it a couple of times, when she got bold and thought that _maybe,_ she could stop, buy whatever she wanted and stop having to pay the ridiculous fees that went along with being one of the Landlord's girls and living in the forsaken building in the first place, but she had learned since then.

It was impossible to stop, stop running, stop selling, stop getting wrapped up in powerful men's words and lies. The world would never stop just because she did, and the ground would tear itself right out from under her feet and leave Natasha to fall and break, with no cares.

She hugged the money box to her chest, then put it away, locking the drawer back. She stood up, then stopped, staring at the still open top drawer. Those two disgustingly bright squares were staring at her, judging her, asking her if she _really _thought she was still alright.

Natasha roughly slammed the drawer shut, then stomped to her closet to hang up her coat.

_This isn't going to become a habit,_ she thinks, and prays it's true.

* * *

_AN __In a terrible way, I kind of like Natasha's mindset/attitude at this point, because it's just so interesting. She's so absolutely jaded and unhappy and has no bright, shiny hopes of where this all ends for her, but at the same time, she's in very big denial. Not just with Clint, but it's like she's denying how bad things are. She doesn't call the Landlord her pimp, or her and the rest of the people he hires prostitutes, or her home a whorehouse, but instead finds euphemisms and slightly archaic slang because it doesn't bite as much. Absolutely fascinating aspect of her._

_Please review and tell me what you thought! I'm eager to hear your opinion :)_


	3. kiss his heart on the mouth

_AN Do you ever realize that you haven't updated your fic in nearly a month and slowly sink a little lower into you writer self hate? Yeah, me too._

_I kind of want to cartwheel into the sun in all the worst ways possible because with this story and this story ONLY do I have constant battles over not slipping into the incorrect tense. They're slight mistakes, but one wrong word and suddENLY I'VE BEEN WRITING IN THE PRESENT TENSE FOR NEARLY A PAGE AND NOT THE PAST TENSE LIKE I'M SUPPOSED TO. AUGHASDFJKL;URGH. So I apologize now for any silly mistakes I have about misplaced tenses, I tried to catch as many as possible._

* * *

"I've Got to See You Again"

Lines on your face don't bother me  
Down in my chair when you dance over me  
I can't help myself  
I've got to see you again

Late in the night when I'm all alone  
And I look at the clock and I know you're  
not home  
I can't help myself  
I've got to see you again

Norah Jones

* * *

**nearly a month passes.**

The nights go by for Natasha, skittering past in an ugly haze. She was tired so often these days, tired and _cold_. And not just from forsaking most of her nights to saunter along street corners, cooing at anyone that might give her a buck, and constantly keeping an eye out for the police. It wasn't anything physical that dragged at Natasha's bones, but merely the nonsense that had somehow packed its way into her head. Every time someone opened the door for her, or told her that she really didn't need to bother with a seat belt because _we'll be there soon,_ or the Landlord casually told her that someone had booked her for three consecutive nights, she felt another small piece of herself break off and get lost somewhere.

She kept wondering if she would find them somewhere, tucked against the wall beneath her bed, or maybe hiding in the back corner of one of her vanity drawers, but Natasha knew she would never search. It hurt enough to lose them the first time, she didn't want to throw herself open eyed into a second.

Yet through all this, Natasha found herself thinking about Clint. Again, and again, and again, he would pop into her head, and it wasn't just disgruntled curiosity anymore. Clint, damnable Clint with his stupid sticky notes and his sad blue eyes, he has turned into a fact, a landmark. There should be nothing inside her for him, and yet he somehow managed to find purchase.

It absolutely infuriated her.

Natasha didn't know what exactly he was doing there inside of her head, or what he meant, but she knew that it could never be anything good for her. Not getting caught up was not an object to her anymore, as she had clearly and fully handed herself over to him.

To what extent though, was the main concern.

As much as Natasha wanted to deny it, Clint was a fire to her. He was warm and wonderful and he casts out bits of dark from her soul, but oh how he _hurt_ when she tried to touch him.

Because she was always trying to touch him, dipping her finger tips into his flames every time her mind wandered over to him, longing for his respect and decency. Then the truth of the matter always came back to burn her, as she remembered that he does not care about her, does not respect her as she would like to think. The light he cast over her that allowed her to think that she might be a little bit better is fake, a joke. The most Clint could possibly respect about her or even see in her was the beautiful simplicity of the system she had ground herself under.

Thinking about it just made her even more cold and tired.

**then he calls and resets the clock.**

Natasha walked through the streets, head down as she waited, waited, waited for her courage to come back.

Clint had called for her, right out of the blue, like last time. Just when she had settled in the assurance that he would _not_ ever ask to see her again, he had smashed it all apart. She could have dealt with that, though. That was fine, she really didn't care. Natasha wanted to lose the pain of having _nothing_, even if it was just for a while, even if it was just by drowning it in another sort of pain. What had her pacing the streets instead of sitting quietly in her room and waiting until Clint wanted her, however, was the Landlord.

Just hearing her name, _Natasha,_ slip from his lips sent a shudder down her shoulder blades. It was smooth, easy, a pack of daggers wrapped up in the bow that was his friendly Texan accent.

She had turned in the hallway when he had spoken, pulling her strings tight and keeping anything from reaching her face. A bag of laundry in her arms as she was dragging herself back from the Laundromat, but Natasha looked at him like she was the most refined creature in the world, like he had not business in speaking to her.

_No fear._

He had been quite civil all through the interaction. There was no hair grabbing, no knocking her bag to the floor, not so much as a hissed couple of words in her face. Simply him saying that he was pleased with her, that she had been doing good lately.

"You were out nearly every night last week, managed to get Mr. Barton as a regular—"

"A regular?" she interrupted, caught up in herself for a moment. She sank her teeth into her tongue when she saw the Landlord shift ever so slightly, manner turning from a warm blanket to steel. She kept the worry from leaping into her eyes, though, kept herself from shifting back and shrinking, becoming a smaller target. Natasha was a statue, big and frozen and unable to be hurt by looks and words. She waited a moment, worried about what his next move was, but while the Landlord's expression turned colder at her trespass, it wasn't flinty.

The moment seemed like a lifetime, her staring at his grey-green eyes and trying not to pay attention to how noticeably empty they were, no soul for them to reveal. But then he nodded, melting into something sunny and complimentary.

"Yes, a regular. Didn't Alexandria tell you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Alexandria was Natasha's main rival for position in the boarding house, reveling in the petty, self-serving atmosphere. Where Natasha had tenure and a charisma that was all sultry elegance (or as much elegance a street corner hooker could have), Alexandria had a fervor and never ending willingness to fling herself at customer's feet. Underneath her determination and hard work, Alexandria had nails like a cat's; liable to shoot out at anyone that displeased her without a moment's notice.

The Landlord's smile became real as he read the truth of the matter on Natasha's face—of course Alexandria hadn't told Natasha that there was another regular calling for her. That would only increase Natasha's standing with the Landlord, exactly the opposite of what Alexandria was fighting every day for.

There was very little in the world other than money and indulging in vice that brought such satisfied amusement to the Landlord's face, and it made her sick.

"Yes, well, our Mr. Barton has called for you again. Make sure you don't go on and _disappoint _him, that won't be getting us anywhere, now will it? Your numbers are already teetering as it is, can't afford much more happening can you?" He chuckled and touched her arm, a far too familiar farewell for her liking.

The threat still made Natasha's hands clench. Not in anger, not in resentment or determination or disgust. It was only fear that made her hands move, only fear that sent her walking all over hell knew where in heels that could probably be used as chopsticks. She couldn't maintain the removed, cold façade when the Landlord did that to her, not when he touched her arm like a friend and threatened her like an enemy.

Not in a place like the boarding house, anyways. The other girls were all sharks and wolves, circling and waiting for a drop of blood or waft of fear to lunge.

Natasha kept her head down, walking fast in a bad neighborhood with the banner of a prostitute streaming behind her. Voices barked out at her from alleys, whistles echoed off the walls, fingers beckoned her closer, all asking if she would cut them a break, just this once. Natasha cast them looks entirely made of ice and kept moving, hands clenched in the pockets of a coat that was a little too heavy for the weather.

It was all she had though, the only shield between her and everything from the wind and the vagrants that watched her disappear in the gloom to the doubts and unceasing cold that radiated out of her. Natasha had bought it for herself with her street corner money, not long after her grandparents had died, but before she had gone to live in the boarding house. It was the last thing she had before she had marched herself into this terrible era of darkness.

A radio crackled down to her from an apartment above, a soft voiced woman saying that it was _'ten twenty-seven, folks_', telling Natasha that she had better get going if she was going to find Clint's motel before the hour was up.

She walked a little faster towards where his motel was, wanting to be able to not think as she handed herself over to the simple task of performing and getting cash.

**this is a habit he is making. she can feel it.**

Clint let her in with a smile and a nod. He was dressed nice as always, slacks creased just so, shirt looking like it had just rolled out of one of the expensive men's apparel stores over in Manhattan. He wasn't wearing a tie, though, the loose collar exposing the edges of his collar bone.

"Good to see you," he told her as he closed the door. Natasha gave him a warm smile that she didn't mean, and shrugged out of her coat. It gave a dull sigh as it hit the wood, something she could sympathize with. Clint fished out his wallet, handing over the money. He was entirely casual as he spoke, as if this was the way everyone behaved.

"I would have called sooner, but I just haven't had the time."

Natasha tucked away the money, wondering why he even bothered to explain it to her. Her opinion didn't matter, not in the slightest.

"I can see that," she said, settling in close to him. "There's all sorts of stress sitting on your shoulders. I think you really ought to let me work that out."

"Work it out," he murmured, looping an arm around her waist and pulling her a little bit closer. He was looking through his lashes at her, eyes following her arms as she settled them around his shoulders.

"That sounds like an appealing option," he admitted, and Natasha smiled. Immediately he was tasting it, drinking up her laughter in great greedy gulps that drew all of the oxygen out of her.

Clint was some sort of mix between their last two encounters, not the fevered creature that had first bought her, nor the gentle, steady one from the time before. There was some sort of intensity coursing through his fingers that pressed itself through her clothes and her skin as he pushed her up against the wall by the door, raising her arms above her head.

As Clint kissed her, Natasha closed her eyes. Shudders skittered across her spine as he brushed his lips over her neck, which only seemed to excite him more.

She had been right, she thought vaguely, hands clenched in the back of his shirt. Worries about the Landlord had been lost in the flurry of his hands and lips covering as much of her as possible.

Clint shifted her to the table, but she pushed back, getting her feet under her and forcing him back towards the bed. His laughter trickled past her teeth and his tongue and ran on down into her throat, where it settled, dark and forbidden and sweet.

The two of them tumbled onto the bed, Natasha straddling him and unbuttoning his shirt further. Just one glance at his face told her that yes, this was a habit now carved into his bones.

She pressed her lips to his sternum, partly because she had to and partly because she was so incredibly relieved.

**the smile he gives her later is made of angel feathers. she thinks it ironic, as his words echo with vice.**

Natasha pulled in a breath, waiting for sleep. Clint's breathing was steadier than hers, and his eyes were closed. His heartbeat wound through his veins and into her bones, comforting even though it was out of rhythm with hers.

"I wish I could stay here for forever," he mumbled, making her chuckle.

"You could, if you want. I certainly won't kick you out."

Clint cracked a smile, then shifted so his legs were a little less entangled with hers.

"Oh, it's not you that I'm worried about. It's more work, which has had me up in the ass crack of the morning all week. First the flight to Germany, then attending _waaaaay_ too many conferences, pleasing this person, making nice to that guy, flying back for most of the day...it's a nightmare."

"Germany?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, even though he couldn't see it. He gave a tired '_mm-hm'_, then sighed and cracked open one of his lovely, if exhausted, blue eyes to look at her.

"Apparently only the new, promising young minds of engineering are allowed to travel nine hour flights to Germany," he sighed. "The older minds get to stay in boring old America to wake up in the ass crack of the morning."

"Lucky them" she mused, thinking that Clint must have done a _lot_ of traveling, if going to Germany for a few conferences was unimpressive. It also reminded Natasha of her childhood dream to go traveling across the world, excited by stories from her parents. So far, the only real traveling she had done was the trip from Russia to New York, and then migrating her way into worse and worse neighborhoods.

"At least you're home now," she murmured, which only made him sigh again.

"Yep, except my fiancée wants to spend all day with me to hear about Germany," Clint groaned, face half hidden in his pillow. Natasha gave a chuckle as if to point out how well he had it if the worst he had to worry about was his fiancée wanting to spend some time with him after a week in Germany.

"She do that often?"

"Every time I have a business trip. Even if I'm just going out of state, she demands I spend at least all of lunch talking about the things I've seen. It's exhausting, but I don't mind. It's sweet."

_It shows she cares,_ Natasha thought, wondering who this faceless, sweet woman was before drifting into apathy.

"S'why I wish I could just stay here," he said, voice stumbling about as he spoke. Clint broke into a broad smile, one that was so completely full of amusement that Natasha found it a bit stunning, nearly impossible to look at it was so bright. He was so tired that his filters had stopped working, letting all of that simple pleasure flood to the surface.

"I don't have to do anything I don't wanna...with you. No limits pushed…nothing unexpected happening…it's nice. I like it," he mumbled into the pillows, practically asleep, even while speaking.

"It's nice…you're nice."

Natasha sighed as he finally drifted asleep, wondering when she would follow.

How many times, she wondered, had some man fallen asleep beside her, thinking of another life, another woman? She hadn't bothered to ever count such a depressing thing, but she personally thought that it was not enough. Terrible as it was, Natasha wished that she could have managed only on being a call girl and save her the shame of posing for a world she wasn't sure she even liked. Being able to get at least a few hours of sleep, a few more bucks an hour, and not having to deal with the men that hardly even looked back as she stumbled out of their car, it was nice. It made it a bit easier to keep her pride form turning to shambles in her hands, which was becoming a more and more common occurrence these days.

**when she wakes, he isn't there.**

Natasha rolled over, tumbling into consciousness when the shocking cold of the other side of the bed pressed into her skin. She jerked up onto one elbow, heart playing racket ball against her ribs as she dragged in a breath. Disoriented, she looked around the half lit motel room, trying to figure out where she was. She raked through her memories, slowly realizing what was out of place.

Clint wasn't there.

She pulled herself to her feet, making sure that her money was still there, then heaved out a sigh when she found it all in the same place. Natasha flopped back against the bed, trying to make her heart slow.

She wanted to crawl back under the covers, but it was time for her to go. As much as she wanted to curl up under the protection of the warm blankets and forget what had brought her there, Natasha knew she had to leave. Clint had left, probably had checked out of the room already, and the last thing she wanted was to be chased out by the cleaning lady.

If she had been with anyone else, Natasha probably would have worried over the late hour, which was marked by both the clock and the full morning sunshine streaming through the room. With Clint, however, she felt entirely at ease. Probably because of his habit of making sure he never woke her up when he left (sneaking away out of shame, and not quietly leaving out of politeness, she told herself).

As Natasha got dressed, though, she couldn't help but feel…_disappointed_ that she had missed Clint leave. She prided herself on getting up before her clients most times, and there was the fact that she had begun to wonder about what he did every time he woke up. She was curious about why he was so determined to not touch her in the morning, and because she was never going to ask, she might as well observe as much as she could to draw an accurate conclusion.

**she gets ready to leave, but helps herself to a bit of coffee.**

Natasha paused before leaving, and wondered '_why not?'_ before indulging herself. She turned to the counter, which sported the standard microwave and sink, but also a mug and a small container of instant coffee that Clint had probably carried with him. She quickly went about making herself a cup, quietly wishing there was orange juice. It was impressive enough that Clint had carried instant coffee with him when coming back from Germany, but there was no way he was going to go out and buy a bunch of hassle in the form of a carton of juice.

She sat down at the small table sipping from her coffee, which was a little watery from her having to eyeball the amount she poured into the water, but she didn't mind. She looked at her coat, which was hanging off the side of the table, clinging to the top to avoid falling to the questionable floor below. Natasha brushed the heels of her shoes along the worn carpet, vaguely wondering how many people like her this room had seen, and then how many of that number had chosen to linger just as she was doing.

The cup was comforting in her hands, the warmth wriggling its way up through her fingers and into her chest. It warmed her up much more than the cash staring at her on the table ever could. Probably because the coffee (for her, at least) was free, while she had worked hard for every cent sitting beside her.

Sighing, she picked up the money and placed it in her coat pocket, not wanting to feel the reproach flowing off of it. Natasha pulled on her coat, telling herself that she would leave soon, but didn't get up. She picked up her coffee mug, took another sip.

**the door opens, making her jump.**

The sound of the door opening and disrupting the perfect quiet around Natasha made her jump, nearly spilling her coffee. She stared at Clint, who had just walked through it. He looked at her in equal surprise, as if not having expected her to have been there.

"You're awake," he said, and she nodded, a stream of curses bursting through her head in Russian. She began berating herself for sticking around, for having taken up more of his time than he had paid for. That was something amateurs did, not girls that had been doing this for the better part of _ten damn years_.

"I thought you would still be asleep now," he said, slowly closing the door. He had rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and was slipping his phone into his pocket. She wondered whom he had been calling, then told herself to not care.

"Uhm, no, I just woke up, actually," she said, then cleared her throat to push the accent out of her voice. It always bled through in the mornings when she first woke up and wasn't as on guard. Clint nodded, and she wondered why on earth he had come back. Did he normally do this? Or had he be gone long enough for him to think she would be gone? She glanced at the clock, nervous at the time she had taken back from him.

**he sits down and talks with her a little, but mostly watches her. she feels uncomfortable even though it's totally innocent.**

"Mm," he said noncommittally, nodding and taking a step towards her. Natasha pressed her thumb against the mug, turning the nail white from the pressure. She glanced down at her hand, thankful that it was hidden by the cup so that Clint couldn't see how anxious she suddenly felt. Natasha thought she had a general grasp of Clint's character, but she wasn't sure what he was going to do next, whether he was subject to the especially nasty things always came out at unexpected moments.

"Mind if I…?" Clint asked, nodding towards the chair beside her. She blinked in surprise, then nodded, gesturing absently at the space beside her.

He drew the chair back and settled in it, giving her a passing smile.

"If I'd known that you wanted some, I would have packed better coffee," he said, nodding at the mug in her hands. She gave a fleeting smile, suddenly aware of how very much he owned the mug.

"It's alright," she said, more out of politeness than actual conviction. She had the sneaking suspicion that the coffee wouldn't taste much better even if it were at full strength, but it was something in her stomach and she was never one to look at the teeth of the horse she'd been given.

Clint laughed and shook his head, resting an elbow on the table.

"Come on, I only take that stuff with me so I can get my caffeine fix to get me on my feet before I go find coffee that doesn't taste like disgusting river water."

"Not all rivers are dirty," she said, shrugging, which made him chuckle again.

"I don't know what kind of rivers you've been privileged to see, but most people 'round here think of just the Hudson."

"That's frightfully narrow minded, don't you think?" Natasha asked, breaking into a smile. She was trying to do anything to move his gaze off of her, but wasn't having much luck. For having been so exhausted the night before that he could barely focus his eyes, they were shockingly sharp right now. It felt like Clint was yet again looking at her like he could see through to her soul, and it made her uncomfortable. The more she thought about it, the less of her she wanted himt o see.

The strangest thing, though, was that Clint gaze wasn't even the hungry, lecherous thing that she was used to, the kind that bar flies sent her when it was late and they were both a little drunk and she was truly desperate for some cash. Instead Clint was just watching her, nothing but idle interest and a little bit too much perception filling his eyes.

"I guess," he said, shrugging. He turned his eyes to the mug in her hands, but it wasn't in an accusatory or passive-aggressive display of ownership, just an act of observation. She pulled her hands away from it, even though she immediately missed the shreds of warmth in the porcelain.

"You much of a coffee person?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"It's something," she said, and he shook his head, gave a soft sigh that was almost another laugh.

**she retreats into the bathroom, just for some space, just for some air.**

There was another awkward pause and Natasha shifted again, then got to her feet.

"If you'll excuse me," she murmured, quickly retreating to the bathroom before Clint had even finished something like '_sure'_.

She closed the door behind her and nearly sank to the floor, wondering _how the hell_ she had gotten herself into this situation. Of course, logic said that she should have just gotten up and left, but instead she had walked into the bathroom, which she would have to then leave, simply to return to the room. Natasha sighed and sat on the lid of the toilet, wishing that he hadn't even called for her the night before. She was _not_ being paid to go through this sort of social embarrassment, she was to have sex with him and then _get out._

And what was Clint even doing, letting her stay and even sitting down with her?! He should have kicked her out, told her that it was time for her to go. That's what everyone else did. They kept it simple, distant, and efficient.

Natasha closed her eyes and took a moment to breathe without Clint's clear blue eyes on her, analyzing her very being. She tilted her head back, listening to him move in the main room. She was curious, no doubt, but she was also relishing being alone. Natasha had been far too long without real social interaction, and now was definitely not the time to start it back up with one of her _clients._

She waited, listening to the water in the pipes, the slight creak of the lid as she breathed, the sound of the people all around her, separated by less than a foot of plaster, wood, and sheet rock.

**when she comes out, he has vanished.**

Natasha finally worked up her nerve to go back out, but when she opens the door of the bathroom, it is to find that the room is empty.

She stared in confusion, part of her wondering where on earth Clint was, but a much bigger part was on its knees, completely thankful that he had the grace to let her leave in solitude. The embarrassment of having walked in on her, lingering and having a cup of coffee when she really should have been back on the streets was probably enough to make him short her pay the next time he bought her.

_**If** he buys me again,_ she thought glumly, unable to imagine the mar this must have put on her record for him.

Natasha paused her pessimism a moment to realize that the room had changed. It was slight, but the difference caught her eye.

A bright pink sticky note sat on the table, curled upwards from having been roughly pulled from the main pad. Natasha walked closer, more out of impulse than anything. She knew there wouldn't be anything on it, just like the other two, but she still had to look, had to make sure that it was real.

Natasha sighed slightly, then blinked. Her cup (or rather, the cup she had borrowed from Clint) had disappeared as well. She wondered if he had taken it, but then reminded herself that he had no purpose in trucking around a coffee cup with him when he could just leave it in the room with the rest of his things.

Briefly Natasha wondered if he had thrown it away, but then rolled her eyes at her wild conclusions. She checked the small sink, utterly unsurprised to find it sitting primly in the basin, completely washed.

She shook herself then turned around, and walked quickly to the door. Natasha picked up the pink sticky note in one swift movement, not even hitching her step on her way past.

**she can't help but smile as leaves, because now she knows.**

The air was crisp on her skin, and her coat was practically hanging off her shoulders, but Natasha didn't slow down, didn't adjust her clothes. As she walked, Natasha looked at the sticky note, holding it up before her eyes for the entire world to see. A tiny quirk came to her lips, and she stowed it in her pocket.

She got it now. After all of that wondering, she _finally_ understood was those stupid blank sticky notes meant.

They were a good bye.

Each time he left them, he was saying goodbye to her. That was probably why he had come back in that morning, to place a sticky note in the room or to get something before he vacated the area so she could leave with some shred of dignity.

Natasha felt her stomach flutter at the thought, suddenly filled with appreciation for Clint. He was undoubtedly still a scoundrel that preferred spending his first even back from Germany with a prostitute rather than his fiancée, but Clint _did_ have some sense of decency. At least enough to let her walk away with her wounded pride and her tail between her legs without anyone to watch her.

And…stupid as it was, there was some triumph there, too. To some extent, she had been right in thinking that Clint was a little bit more than her standard fare.

Walking back to the boarding house that day, with her head held high from the victory of finally defeating a mystery that had haunted her for weeks, Natasha also knew that was it. That was the day that Clint wasn't just a curiosity or a nuisance or a mental affliction to her.

That was when she finally admitted he was a little bit more than interesting.

* * *

_AN I like the Landlord as a character. I have no idea why, but I enjoy writing for him. I also like having not-so-good-guy Clint in my story. He is even more fun to write for, as all this bad stuff makes for all this lovely character development~_


End file.
